HP: Thicker Than Blood
by longhairedhippydopefiend
Summary: (HP:WHR) A witch, a wizard, and an organization that wants to destroy them both.
1. Chapter One

A/N: This is my first time writing anything to do with either Harry Potter or Witch Hunter Robin, but I just couldn't get the idea out of my head, and, although I've seen the two series combined in some fanfics, I really don't think anything I've read has done either of them justice. Thus, this is a paltry attempt to do just that. Be warned, I've only read the HP books once, so more than likely I'll be working off of the movies more than the books.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in the anime Witch Hunter Robin, and I'm not sure who does. I just know it's not me. And I also don't own any characters in the Harry Potter books. They all belong to J.K. Rowling who is—in my opinion—one of the most fantastic storytellers in all literary history.

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* * *

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**Thicker Than Blood**

Chapter One

The only sound was the repetitious clunking of the large grandfather clock in the corner. The old man sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled and blue eyes intense behind his small spectacles. A woman, seemingly as old as he, sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Are they certain?" she suddenly asked, her voice shaking.

"Yes." His voice was calm.

He leaned forward and picked up a thick piece of parchment that lay on his desktop. The black script on the parchment was visible in the sparse light.

"How could this have happened?" the woman wrung her weathered hands, her graying hair shining in the candlelight as she shook her head from side to side. "We haven't been in danger like this for decades. Hundreds of years. Not like this."

"Yes."

"Well, how are we to respond to this threat, Albus? We must do something."

The old man sighed and set the parchment down again, looking up at his old friend.

"What do you suggest, then, Minerva?"

The old woman pursed her lips and straightened in her chair.

"Since we are all in danger, I suggest that we take steps to protect ourselves."

He cocked his head, wispy gray hair shifting on his shoulders.

"This is the safest place in England for us," Minerva said. "We should gather everyone here."

"Everyone? That would be a tad bit crowded, don't you think?"

"I suppose. At least the children, then. The ones who are incapable of protecting themselves."

"Incapable, Minerva?"

"You know what I mean, Albus," she scolded slightly. "Imagine the consequences if those—those _creatures_ located that horrible Dursley family, if they found Harry."

The old man sighed.

"From what I've heard of them," Minerva continued, "they're dangerous, vicious, brutal. We'd never see him again, and we'd all be lost. You of all people know how important he is."

"Yes, Minerva, I know, but we must remain calm in this situation."

"Calm?"

"Yes, calm," he nodded firmly. "We are well hidden here. No outsider has found this school in many centuries, and whatever else these _hunters_ may be, they are outsiders. Even the Ministry—who sent us this warning—agrees on that."

"Yes, Albus."

"I agree with you, Minerva," he stood, his shining robes falling around him. "Send the owls calling all the students back, but don't mention why we want them here."

"I've a mind to think, Albus, that some of them may not relish spending their summer here."

"Some, but not all," he patted her shoulder.

She smiled and hurried briskly from his office. Slowly, the old man returned to his desk and lifted the parchment again, his eyes scanning over it once more.

> > _Headmaster Dumbledore:_
>> 
>> _A dangerous situation has arisen concerning a Muggle organization called the STN. Word has reached the Ministry of a plan intended to detain and possibly exterminate members of the magical community. We at the Ministry are working to curtail this assault before it occurs, but as the headmaster of such a find establishment as __Hogwarts__School__ of Witchcraft and Wizardry, we thought it most appropriate to allow you to take the proper precautions regarding your students._
>> 
>> _Most sincerely,_
>> 
>> _The Ministry of Magic_

The old man set the parchment down again and sighed heavily, glancing at the bright red bird that perched beside his desk.

"We've got trouble this time, haven't we, Fawkes?"

The bird cooed softly and tilted its red-gold head.

Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair and leaned back.

"So," he murmured, closing his eyes, "we come to it again."

* * *

The phone rang, chiming stridently in the silence that filled the office. Her lithe, white fingers lifted the telephone to her ear, and she murmured softly into the receiver. After conversing for a moment, she transferred the call to another secretary and returned her gaze to the computer terminal at her left. Her fingers had just settled on the keyboard when the office door banged, and her employer sauntered toward her desk.

"You work too much," the handsome man shrugged off his coat and smiled at her with flirtatious blue eyes. "Why don't you come and get a coffee with me, no?"

His young secretary smiled but shook her head and turned back to her computer screen.

"Oh, come, now," the man leaned over her desk, "surely your work can't be that important, eh? You work for me, don't you? I can give you a few hours off. You like espresso, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, but I truly have a great deal of work to do," she answered softly with another smile. "Thank you, though."

She returned to her typing, leaving her employer scowling.

"Maybe next time," he forced a smile and strode into his office, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, she shook her head and smiled to herself. It was at least the tenth time he had asked her to go somewhere with him. Jean-Claude Marceau was not easily deterred, she was discovering.

_I doubt I can continue to refuse his offer_, she thought to herself as she picked up an envelope. _He'll certainly become curious soon and start asking questions._

She picked up a manila envelope stuffed with papers and slid it into a file drawer.

_Questions I can't answer._

She shut the file drawer.

_ It's just coffee, after all_, she told herself._ Amon wouldn't mind._ She winced visibly as she imagined how her steely eyed warden would respond to such an action. _No. He _would_ mind. He would be angry. It is miraculous enough that he allows me to work. I shouldn't try his patience by obviously contradicting our purpose here._

She stared at the computer screen again, the lights of the monitor reflecting in her luminous green eyes.

_Our purpose_, she thought. _Can hiding truly be considered a purpose? Can running for our lives be considered a purpose?_

She smiled ruefully.

_It must be or else we would not yet live._

The door to Marceau's office banged again, and he strode out pompously, another presumptuous grin on his handsome face.

"I bought you something while I was at lunch," he leaned over her desk again, closer this time than before.

He deposited a package on her desk and smiled.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Open it and see."

Tentatively, she reached for the ribbon that bound the red-wrapped paper. The paper fell away as she pulled the ribbon, revealing a tall, white candle.

"A candle?" she cocked a blonde eyebrow in curiosity.

"Yes," he was still smiling. "Its scent will invigorate you when you burn it."

"When I burn it?"

"Yes. Take it home and think of me often."

She looked up at him and then down at the candle.

_You cannot accept this_, her mind told her. _To do so would only encourage this behavior, and I cannot justify that._

"Mr. Marceau—"

"Robin," he stopped her, "you have worked for me how long?"

"Two weeks, Mr. Marceau."

"Plenty of time for familiarity!" he pounded his chest. "Call me Jean-Claude."

"I would much rather call you—"

"Take home the candle," he took her hand and kissed it dramatically. "I won't allow you to do otherwise."

She sighed heavily and nodded, pulling her hand from his grasp.

"As you wish, Mr. Mar—Jean-Claude," she corrected as his hand lifted in a scolding gesture.

"Good," he nodded. "Now, will you have coffee?"

"I need to finish this report, sir," she answered. "Perhaps another time."

She turned from him and stared pointedly at the monitor, praying with every breath that he would leave.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Enjoy the candle, my dear." He bowed with a dramatic flair and strode powerfully into his office.

She breathed a huge sigh of relief as he did.

_I can't take that back to the apartment_, she thought worriedly. _When Amon sees it, he'll wonder where I got it. All the money I make goes toward necessities. A fragrant candle is most certainly not a necessity. Perhaps I could burn it quickly. No, then Mr. Marceau will wonder where it went. I would be forced to lie to him to keep him from asking._

She scowled thoughtfully.

_Which would I rather do? Break a commandment or anger Amon?_ She sighed again. _Why are decisions concerning Amon so terribly vexing?_

The faint scent of blooming roses touched her nose suddenly, and she frowned deeper than before, glancing at the candle. It had been lit.

_Stupid_, she berated herself, glaring at the little flame on the wick._ You were thinking too hard._

She reached to extinguish the candle when Marceau suddenly exclaimed, "Magnificent!"

He burst out of his office and laughed, dancing around her desk.

"You lit the candle! I knew you would!"

"It was an accident," Robin murmured without thinking.

"I didn't know you kept matches in your desk," Marceau ignored her. "Now will you have coffee?"

With a sigh, Robin bent down, shut off her computer, and stood.

"There are many things you do not know about me, Mr. Marceau," her voice was cold. "Good day."

Silently, she brushed past him and walked out of the office, leaving Marceau stunned behind her.

As he returned dejectedly to his office, he did not notice the flame on the wick diminishing as his young secretary moved away from the building.


	2. Chapter Two

**Thicker Than Blood**

Chapter Two

Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell as she ascended toward her apartment. Once she reached the door, she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door, pushing it open and closing it as she entered. It was a simple place. Nothing wild or dramatic. Plain white walls and stiff white carpet, white drapes and white tile in the small kitchen—it was the perfect place for two people who were hiding from the world.

Robin stepped into her bedroom and quickly changed out of her work clothes and into a plain black blouse and black jumper. She hung her clothes up and hurried into the kitchen to begin supper.

Amon was always hungry when he returned, though he never admitted the fact aloud.

Robin hummed slightly to herself as she chopped carrots and celery. They had eaten a cooked chicken the night before, and she had decided to use the broth for soup. In a few moments, she had a full pot of soup simmering on the stove, the aroma of chicken and vegetables filling the small apartment.

Robin curled up in one of the arm chairs and waited for the familiar clunk of Amon's heavy boots on the landing.

* * *

The sun rose bright and cheerful over the horizon, showering the green earth with warm rays of light. The summer sunshine filtered through the windows of the Burrow and filled the old, shabby dwelling with warmth. Twelve-year-old Ginny Weasly poked her head over the banister and gazed down into the kitchen.

"Well, don't just stand there," her mother fussed from the stove. "Come down here and help me get breakfast on."

Ginny nodded quickly and raced down the stairs, her bright red hair flying behind her. In a moment, both she and her mother had set out a lovely spread of breakfast foods.

"Someday, Ron needs to help with this," Ginny griped as she emptied the last of the sausages onto the bowl on the table.

"Now, now," Mrs. Weasly hushed her as the sound of many feet clumped down the stairs. "You leave the cooking to us. I don't want any of your brothers in my kitchen. They'd burn the house down."

"Mum, they'd burn the house down whether they were in the kitchen or not," Ginny sighed, taking her place at the table as the four Weasly boys tromped down the stairs.

Mrs. Weasly did not have to order them to start eating. All five Weasly children immediately filled their plates and began a rousing round of conversation regarding the nest of garden gnomes they had uncovered the previous day.

"Hey, Mum," thirteen-year-old Ron turned to his mother, "where's Dad?"

"He hasn't come back from the Ministry, yet, dear," Mrs. Weasly. "You can see the clock, can't you?"

Ron glanced at the clock on the wall. The hand with his father's face on it was still pointing toward, _Work_.

"Isn't that strange, Mother?" Percy, the oldest boy present asked. "He certainly should have been home by now."

"You know how your father's job goes, Percy," Mrs. Weasly sighed. "He can be out all night and all day if he must."

Slowly, conversation returned to the garden gnomes while the twins, Fred and George, threw wads of oatmeal at Ginny when their mother's face was turned.

A sudden loud crash caught all their attention, and they turned to the window at the side of the house. An old gray owl had slammed into the window and was spread-eagled against the glass.

"Ah, the post," Mrs. Weasly hurried to the window and let the old owl in.

"Errol, you're pathetic," Ron shook his head.

"Why don't you just send Pig?" Ginny glared at him.

"Because he's up in Ron's room flying circles around the ceiling, that's why," Fred cackled.

Ron's new screech owl, Pigwigeon, was remarkably hyperactive.

"What is it, Mother?" Percy suddenly asked.

The five Weasly children glanced at their mother. Mrs. Weasly held a piece of parchment in her hands. Her face was somber.

"Children, pack you things," she suddenly folded the letter up.

Gasps sounded from the five children.

"Mum, why?" Ron asked.

"There's been—Something's happened," Mrs. Weasly quickly began to gather the dishes. "Pack your things quickly. You're all going back to Hogwarts."

"Back to school?" Fred and George whined at the same time.

"Yes. Hurry."

"But, Mom—" Ron started.

"Don't argue with me!" Mrs. Weasly turned to them, her eyes on fire and her face turning red. "Get up to your rooms this instant and pack your bags!!"

Without another word, the five children scurried upstairs and started to pack.

* * *

Robin's eyes opened when she heard the door lock given an audible click. She unfolded her legs as the door opened and Amon stepped in.

As long as they had been living together, Robin could still never grow accustomed to seeing him in casual clothes. Presently, Amon was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He had pulled his hair back in a short ponytail, and he had hidden his stone gray eyes with a pair of nondescript sunglasses, which he removed as soon as he was indoors.

Robin greeted him with a smile and moved to the kitchen to finish supper. He only nodded and moved toward the shower. That was how their evenings always began.

Robin listened to the water start to run. She stirred the soup and cut some pieces of bread. As soon as she heard the water turn off, she ladled the soup into two bowls and placed them on their small dining room table. She arranged the bread on a plate and set it in the middle. Pouring two glasses of water, she sat down in her chair and waited.

Amon emerged from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and smelling of cheap shampoo, and he sat in his chair. Robin blessed her plate while he waited patiently. Then, they ate in silence.

Amon finished his first bowl quickly and stood to get a second. Robin took the time to watch him. His movements were slow and tired. Working at the docks over the past three weeks had exhausted him, but it provided valuable information as to what was happening on the streets. He also gained multiple contacts with Paris underground intelligence.

Nonetheless, the hard, physical labor was taking its toll on him.

Robin turned back to her soup and bread.

"The soup has been cooking for a while," she heard his voice from the kitchen.

"Yes."

"When did you start it?"

"When I got back from work," she stirred her soup with her spoon. _I knew he would ask. He won't be happy about Mr. Marceau. Should I tell him? Should I lie?_

"Robin." His voice was sharp.

She looked up. He was standing beside her, his eyes cold.

"I asked you a question. Didn't you hear me?"

"No. I'm sorry, Amon."

"When did you get back?" he repeated for her benefit.

"Around—around 1:00."

"1:00? Isn't that a little early?"

"I left work early."

"Why?"

"No real reason. Don't worry, Amon."

"Robin."

She looked up at him again. His cold eyes had softened slightly, but his jaw was rigid.

"My boss wants me to have coffee with him," she whispered.

Amon nodded and returned to his seat, taking another bite of soup.

"You know you can't," he said sharply.

"I know," she answered, "but Mr. Marceau is insistent. He bought me a candle today."

"You didn't accept it, did you?"

"Of course, not," Robin scowled at him. "Well. Not really."

"Robin."

"Did you light it?"

She looked down, and he sighed hugely.

"It was an accident," she bit her lip. "I was thinking, and I wasn't paying attention. I didn't mean to light it. Truly, Amon."

He finished his second bowl of soup and set it down.

"You have to stop working."

Robin's head jerked up.

"It won't happen again, Amon," she pleaded. "I promise. And I'll tell Mr. Marceau that I can't have coffee with him one more time. I'm sorry. Please don't make me stop—"

"Nagira called me today," he interrupted her.

Immediately, Robin quieted.

"Nagira?"

"Yes," Amon set his spoon on the table. "SOLOMON is on the move."

"SOLOMON," Robin whispered. "How does Nagira know?"

"How does the fool know anything?" Amon shrugged.

"Maybe he talked to Doujima," Robin mused. "She helped us before."

"Perhaps. Either way, I don't like the fact that they're moving as rapidly as they are."

"What do you mean?"

"They've activated field offices in almost every station around there world, including here."

"We have to leave?"

Amon sighed again.

"Amon, we haven't even been here a month yet, and we have to leave again?"

His eyes bored into her.

"Where will we go?"

"London."

"Again?" Robin closed her eyes. "I didn't much care for London, Amon."

"Neither did I, but we have no choice. That's the best flight I can get right now. Besides, England is the only field that SOLOMON hasn't activated."

Robin nodded and looked down.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"There's nothing you could have done, Robin," he said quickly. "I have to make sure that everything is in order for our departure."

"Yes, Amon."

"Pack your things tonight. We leave first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Amon."

He grabbed his black coat off the rack and headed for the door. Silently, he opened it and stepped out. Robin listened to the locking mechanism click.

She took a deep breath and gathered the dishes, setting them in the sink.

"I'll give the rest of the soup and our groceries to that poor woman down the hall," she said aloud. "She has so many children."

She packed up the soup and the remaining perishables from the refrigerator. She left the half-gallon of milk and a box of corn flakes for the morning meal and set the rest of the groceries on the top shelf in the refrigerator.

"We can leave them on her doorstep on our way out."

Robin closed the refrigerator door and moved toward the bathroom. She shut the door behind her.


	3. Chapter Three

**Thicker Than Blood**

Chapter Three

* * *

The station will brimming with people, all shoving rudely and babbling incessantly, their constant chatter creating a droning hum that threatened to burst her eardrums with its increasing intensity.

Robin walked as quickly as she could through the mass of people, desperately trying to keep up with Amon's long-legged strides. She focused on his shaggy black mane of hair that stood nearly a head and shoulder higher than everyone else around them.

He stopped suddenly, and she came to a halt behind him, discreetly pressing herself against him. One of the attendants beside the train approached, and Amon began conversing with him in easy English.

Robin had always wondered how Amon could know so many different languages. She knew he spoke Japanese, but he also spoke fluent English with no trace of an accent. During their travels together, she had found that he spoke a variety of languages – French, German, Spanish, Chinese, Russian, Arabic, and even a touch of Shona. She had noted, with a slight smugness, though, that he had never learned to speak Italian.

He started moving again, and she pushed her weary legs to keep up. They had been speed walking through the bustling London crowds since their arrival at the airport early in the morning.

"Amon?"

He did not answer, but she saw his head tilt slightly.

"How much farther?"

"Our train departs from Platform 10," he answered. "We're almost there."

She nodded and matched his stride.

She glared at her reflection in the side of a train as they passed it. Amon had purchased a set of traveling clothes for her earlier in the year – a pair of baggy jeans, a huge t-shirt, and a ball cap. She looked more like a teenage boy than a nearly sixteen year old witch, which was undoubtedly the point. She felt lost in the clothes, though. She had to wear a belt to keep the pants from sliding off, and even with the belt, they felt so loose that they threatened to drop at any moment.

She turned her attention back to Amon and gasped.

Lost in her thoughts, she had slowed considerably. Amon was no longer in front of her.

_Don't panic_, her mind said. _Platform 10.__ The train leaves from Platform 10. Just get there, and you'll find him._

She calmed her racing heart and walked quickly toward the obvious number 10 hanging from the rafters near the waiting train. She passed Platform 9 but stopped in between the signs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall, dark-haired man moving toward the back of the crowd. He was taller than the people around him, dressed all in black, and his black shaggy hair seemed in desperate need of a comb.

_Amon_ she wondered. _Where are you going?_

She glanced toward the train at Platform 10 and then back at Amon, and with a sigh she raced after her warden. She pushed through the crowds as she made her way to where she had seen him, but when she reached the red brick support, he was no where in sight.

"Amon?" she called out lightly, hoping that his extra sensitive hearing would alert him to her presence.

But he never came.

A chill shivered down her spine, but she ignored it and kept scanning the crowd. Amon was so tall that his head should have been visible above the crowd.

_And surely he would not have gotten on the train without me_.

She took a step back to lean on the support – and landed squarely on her rump.

She sat in stunned silence for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, until she slowly realized that the drone of the crowd no longer seemed so deafening.

She looked to her left and stared blankly at the brick support.

"I was sure I was standing in front of it," she muttered, reaching out and setting her hand on the bricks.

Her heart stopped as her hand passed through them!

Robin gasped and scrambled to her feet, staring at the bricks, and she cried out as she backed into something hard. "Watch it, stupid!" She whirled around, her face pale, and locked eyes with a slender young man with cold eyes.

"Are you dense or something?" he snapped, taking in her appearance with one sharp look. "Watch where you're going."

"S—sorry," Robin stuttered, her entire frame trembling under his steely gaze.

With a disgusted snort, the boy brushed past her, the sweet breeze barely ruffling his gelled white hair.

She watched him walk toward the train waiting at the center of the station. Robin gaped in awe at the old steam engine. A sign hung on the front of it, boasting in big, bright letters, _Hogwarts__ Express_. She looked up and stared at the sign hanging from the side of the pillar.

"Platform nine and three quarters?" she whispered. "What _is_ this?"

A flash of black drew her attention back toward the train where Amon was moving toward its back end.

"Amon!" she called out.

He did not turn. Certainly he would have heard her that time. She watched in horror, though, as he turned. His face was pale and stern, and his nose was long and humped in the middle. His eyes were cold and black, and his mouth was set in a grim line.

It wasn't Amon.

"Oh, no," Robin whispered.

"Hey!"

Robin turned around, fearful of another lecture. A small young woman with frizzy brown hair and bright blue eyes was smiling at her.

"You look lost," she said. "I bet you are."

"Yes. I—I—"

"No need to explain. First years get lost all the time. It's all quite a shock, I'm sure you know, and this whole situation is strange, being called back to school and all. But I'm certain that there's a reason for it. Professor Dumbledore never does anything without a reason."

"Professor Dumbledore?"

The girl regarded her quietly for a moment. She shrugged, more to herself, and took Robin's hand. "You're a witch, aren't you?" she asked in all seriousness.

Robin felt the room beginning to spin as panic settled firmly in her heart.

_How does she know that? She can't tell by looking, can she? Amon, where are you?_

"Well?" the girl asked. "Are you or aren't you?"

"I am."

"Good," the girl laughed and started pulling her toward the train. "That means that you belong with us."

"I do?"

"Of course, you do. From the note we got, no witch or wizard is safe right now. That's why we're all going back to school."

"School?"

"You _are _new, aren't you?" the girl laughed and dragged her on the train. "But that's all right. You're not the first witch to find all this shocking. I was amazed when I saw it too, although I'd been preparing for it for a while."

"You?" Robin stammered. "You are a witch?"

"Of course," the girl responded. "Everyone here is either a witch or a wizard."

"Everyone?" Robin's gaze moved from person to person through the whole crowd of people surrounding the old train.

"Goodness," the girl rolled her eyes, "what did you think you were going to find? Do you need someone to sit with? It can be a terribly long trip without someone to talk to. I usually sit with Ron and Harry. They're a little strange, but what boys aren't, right?"

Robin allowed herself to be pulled on board the train and deposited in a room. She still gaped in awe at her new friend.

_I shouldn't be here_, her mind said. _I should tell her. But how can I tell her? I don't even know who she is. Amon says that we shouldn't trust anyone. Amon. He's bound to be worried. He'll be so angry._

Robin was startled from her thoughts as the girl handed her a strange orange drink and smiled beautifully.

_They're all witches?_

* * *

It was hopeless.

Amon stood on the empty platform, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. He had searched the train – the whole train – twice for her, and he had not found her. He had looked through the crowd three times, and he had not found her.

She was gone.

At first a part of him had been angry. She knew better than to run off. But as he continued to search and continued to find no trace of her, something deep inside him began to ache with fear.

_Where is she?_ he thought frantically.

He could not ask an attendant. The reason he had purchased the disguising travel clothes for her was to detract from attention. The last thing he needed to do was ask if someone had noticed her.

He had stood in helpless agony as the train filled with people and departed. Now he stood alone underneath the Platform 10 sign, trying to think of a plan. He took one last long glance around the station, and, seeing nothing, he started toward the exit.

He stopped on the front walk, listening to the cars go by. Where had she gone? More importantly, _why_ had she gone?

As he stood still, watching, a passing vehicle immediately caught his sharp, gray eyes.

A large van.

Black. No windows.

Almost military in design.

His heart clenched in his chest.

_SOLOMON_, his mind hissed. _SOLOMON is here. Nagira, you fool_.

He watched the van stop at a light.

_Robin_, his heart hissed. _They got Robin._

The light changed, and the van began to move. Amon jumped off the stairs and flagged a cab. He climbed in.

"Follow that black van," he ordered. "Now."

The cabbie, immediately intimidated by his passenger's steely gaze and dark voice, did not argue but raced after the van.


	4. Chapter Four

_Many apologies for the massive delay. Thanks to all who read/reviewed. I may not update often, but I haven't given up on it. I just have a life._**

* * *

**

**Thicker Than Blood"  
Chapter Three**

Robin sipped the orange liquid anxiously. It was sweet and satisfying and rich. Her friendly abductor – who had introduced herself as Hermione Granger – called it pumpkin juice.

"You're not a first year, are you?" Hermione suddenly asked.

Robin turned to look at her. "First year?"

"A first year student? I thought you might be because when I first saw you, you looked young. But you're not that young, are you?"

"What is young?"

"Well, I'm thirteen."

"You seem much older than that, I must say."

"How old are you?"

Robin hesitated. _I shouldn't say. I need to find Amon. _"I really can't stay here," she said aloud.

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione scowled at her. "You can't go wandering off on your own. Especially not now that Professor Dumbledore has called us all back to Hogwarts."

"What?"

Hermione fell silent abruptly, regarding Robin with a piercing gaze. "You _are _a witch, aren't you? You said you were."

"Yes, I am a witch."

"Then, why don't you know all this? Didn't you get the owl?"

"The what?"

"You're not English, are you?"

Robin shifted uncomfortably.

"But you're not American. Where did you come from?"

"Hermione."

"Hermione!" a sudden shout from the hall of the train caused both girls to turn. In the doorway of their room stood a tall, lanky boy with flaming red hair and more freckles than Robin could count.

"Ron!" Hermione grinned. "You made it, I see."

"Yeah. Who's that?"

"This is Robin," Hermione gestured. "Robin, this is Ronald Weasley, the friend I told you about. I'm in the process of figuring out where she came from, Ron. She's not very helpful."

Ron rolled his eyes and sat down in the seats across from them. "If you can't figure it out, no one will."

Robin jumped as the train began to move.

"I really cannot stay on this train."

"Are you mental?" Ron gaped at her. "With those hunters out there?"

Robin stopped short, feeling her heart drop into her stomach.

"Hunters?" Hermione leaned forward. "Ron, what are you talking about?"

"Well, that's the rumor anyway," Ron brightened, obviously thrilled at having information that his brilliant friend did not. "Mum wouldn't say anything, but Fred and George overheard Dad talking through the floo this morning. Something about hunters coming to London."

"I bet that's why Professor Dumbledore is calling us back to Hogwarts. To protect us."

"Speaking of protecting," Ron frowned deeply, "where's Harry? Shouldn't he be here?"

"Maybe he's on the train already," Hermione stood and peered out the door both ways.

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, "what if he didn't get an owl?"

"Of course, he would have gotten an owl, Ronald. The ministry wouldn't forget about Harry. They'd probably send someone to pick him up, if anything."

"Then why isn't he here?"

"He might be. Just because he's not in this compartment, doesn't mean his not on the train, Ronald. He has other friends. Maybe he's checking on Neville. You know how Neville gets."

Ron propped his feet up on the other side of the seat and grumbled something under his breath. Robin did not lean back. She sat straight, watching the land outside her darken with the passing minutes.

HP – WHR – HP – WHR – HP

Amon paid the taxi driver his considerable sum and slid out of the back seat. It had been a relatively long drive to Surrey, south of London, and night was beginning to descend. The black van had pulled into a quiet suburban neighborhood and had parked in the shadows of a rather large tree on a street called Privet Drive.

Amon slipped behind another tree and waited. The van was not moving, and no one was coming out. All the houses looked exactly the same. It was impossible to tell which one the van was watching.

A hooting sound suddenly drew his attention upward. A large gray owl perched on a tree branch above him. As his sharp eyes adjusted to the shadowy light, he realized that the tree was full of owls. With a casual glance, he counted more than thirty. He looked toward another large tree and spied another thirty owls within it.

"What the—" he started and stopped as his gaze settled on a large pile of letters stacked in the yard of house number four.

The letters and the owls were the only oddities in an otherwise normal neighborhood. All the other houses were exactly alike, down to the flowers in the flowerbeds and the curtains hanging in the windows.

"Must be." He pulled away from the tree and moved stealthily behind another house, heading in the direction of Number Four, Privet Drive.

HP – WHR – HP – WHR – HP

The room was stifling, hot and uncomfortable, but thirteen-year-old Harry Potter did not stir from the floor of his dimly lit room. He would rather be hot and uncomfortable than in the company of his family.

Family. Why did he still consider them to be his family when they hated him?

_If only we could have convinced everyone that Sirius was innocent_, Harry thought to himself, sadly drawing his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. "We could have gone to live with him. Would you have liked that, Hedwig?" he turned to the snowy owl in the cage across the room. "Living with Sirius, we could have lots of open space, and you could fly around all day. And I'd fly with you." He thought fondly of his Thunderbolt racing broom, the one Sirius had bought for him anonymously. "I bet Sirius is a top notch Quidditch player."

He glanced at the enchanted photograph on his bed stand, the image of a man with wild black hair dancing with a beautiful woman in a park. Both of them were smiling and happy, joyous in each other's company. His mother and father.

His eyes moved to the cracked mirror on his wall. His mother's green eyes looked back at him, mostly hidden by a shaggy mane of impossible black hair. On a sudden impulse, he pulled back his thick bangs, revealing the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

A reminder of the night almost thirteen years ago when his parents had been murdered. When he himself had nearly been killed.

"Potter!" a harsh howl sounded from downstairs, the noise shaking the walls. "Get down here and do these dishes!"

Uncle Vernon.

Harry felt his stomach turning, but he stood up anyway and moved toward the door. Hedwig suddenly began to squeak and chip loudly. Harry stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at her.

"What's wrong, Hedwig?"

The owl continued to hoot and trill, biting at the lock on her cage.

Harry let go of the doorknob and returned to stand by her cage. "You've been awfully quiet all day," he commented, sticking his finger through the bars for the owl to nibble. She ignored him and continued to gnaw on the lock. "Something's wrong, isn't it? I wish you could tell me."

HP – WHR – HP – WHR – HP

Amon peered around the corner of the house and glared at the black van. It still had not moved. He glanced at the ground and kneeled. More letters covered the lawn. Curiously, he picked up one of the letters. It was old, thick parchment, sealed with wax on the back, and addressed to someone named Harry Potter.

"Whoever sent this must want to get a hold of Mr. Potter," Amon grumbled to himself, looking again at the letter piles all over the yard.

He stopped short as a loud hoot overhead drew his breath upward. A great horned owl was soaring toward the house, carrying a letter in its talons. Amon watched as it came closer and closer to the house.

And promptly vanished in a puff of smoke and feathers. The letter, however, fell to the lawn. Amon felt a familiar shiver whisper down his spine.

_A craft user_, he thought. _There's a craft user around here somewhere_.

The door of the black van suddenly burst open, and fifteen SOLOMON Orbo troops charged toward Number Four, Privet Drive.

_What's happening here_? his mind was awhirl with questions as the troopers stormed the house, bashing in the windows and doors. Amon could hear screams inside. _I thought SOLOMON discontinued the Orbo project once Zaizen went down. _

He pulled his gun out of his coat and checked it for the special bullets he carried. He cocked it, and he moved toward the front door.

_If these troops have Robin, this is the best way to get to her. _

HP – WHR – HP – WHR – HP

Ron and Hermione had been chattering constantly about their friend Harry. By asking a few terse questions, Robin had learned that this friend of theirs was the last hope for the survival of witches and wizards everywhere. He was the only person to have ever defeated the most powerful wizard in the world, and, apparently, this Harry Potter had done it three times, once as an infant and twice during his attendance at Hogwarts.

"His name is Voldemort," Hermione had said. "The dark wizard who murdered Harry's parents."

"Don't say his name!" Ron had folded in on himself and covered his ears.

"Honestly, Ronald. Remember? Fear of a name increases the fear of a thing. Harry's not afraid of Voldemort. So neither should we be afraid of him."

Robin was lost in her thoughts as the train sped on through the night. _How am I ever going to find Amon? I can't tell them who I am. They'll realize my connection with SOLOMON. I could escape_, she glanced at the two friends who were deep in conversation, _but I don't want to hurt anyone. No, the best thing to do is to go to this school of theirs and then escape as soon as I arrive. Hopefully Amon won't be too angry._

A knock sounded on the door, and the three teenagers turned.

A small, old woman wearing a tall pointed hat stood in the doorway. The instant she saw Robin, however, her eyes turned sharp and cold.

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione smiled brightly. "What are you doing on the train?"

"Who is this, and what is she doing here?" the older woman demanded shortly.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"Professor," Hermione cleared her throat, "this is Robin. Robin, this is Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House."

Robin felt her throat constricting in panic as the old woman's gaze did not soften.

_She knows!_ Robin thought wildly. _Somehow, she knows!_

"She said she was a witch, Professor," Hermione was standing now.

"She is not a Hogwarts student, of this I am certain," McGonagall said. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, please come with me."

Hermione and Ron walked to where the old woman was standing and watched in horror as she closed the door and set a locking charm on it. Inside, Robin gasped as the entire compartment darkened and sealed itself.

She stood and placed her hand on the door and jerked it back as an electric shot surged through her fingertips. A flame appeared briefly in her luminous green eyes, but she stifled it quickly.

"Calm," she whispered to herself. "Keep calm. Fighting now is not the right course. These people are obviously not of SOLOMON, and if they are running from Hunters, then they should be sympathetic – as long as they do not know the whole truth, that is. Perhaps the enemy of my enemy really will be my friend."

She touched the door again and scowled at the shock.

"Or perhaps the enemy of my enemy will still be my enemy."


End file.
